The Threat Of Truth

It does not raise its voice.
It does not tremble under scrutiny.
It does not need validation or favour or force.

Truth arrives quietly—
unmoved,
unbothered,
undeniable.

And though it makes no threat aloud,
you fear it.

You fear it because it knows.
Because it saw what you hoped was hidden.
Because it remembers what you pretend to forget.

Truth carries no malice.
No agenda.
No need for cruelty.
But it holds a perfect memory—
of what was said,
of what was done,
of who you were
when you thought no one was watching.

It does not sleep.
It does not sway.
It does not fracture under your story’s weight.

And that terrifies you.

Because you built your case from performance,
stacked your words like scaffolding,
hoping no one would notice the foundation was made of fear.

You should be afraid.

Because truth does not argue—
it reveals.
And once revealed,
there is no closing it back up.

Your voice may shake on the stand.
Your hands may sweat through certainty.
Because truth is not on your side.

It walks in with stillness,
rips the curtain,
and stands where your credibility once lived.

This is the threat.
Not a person.
Not a push.
Just the cold, clean precision of truth
cutting through
everything you claimed was real.